The Wedding Favor (6 page)

“You have to understand that to Winston this kind of thing seemed like a normal part of married life. His parents had sexual issues, so his father satisfied his needs outside the marriage and his mother simply turned a blind eye.”

Vicky stared at her mother. “And you think that’s okay? Going behind someone’s back to have sex with someone else is okay?”

“Of course not. But Winston explained it all to me, and he’ll explain it to you too if you give him a chance. Then the two of you can work out an arrangement you’re both comfortable with.”

“An arrangement? Like, where he’s out screwing other women while I’m home watching
Dancing with the Stars
?”

“Whatever works. Maybe you could go back into therapy.”

“
I
need therapy because
he
cheated on me?”

“Well really, can you honestly tell me you were giving him all he deserved? You’re emotionally stifled, Victoria. Dr. Burns said so years ago. And as far as I can tell, you’ve never been particularly interested in sex.” She spread her hands. “Should a man like Winston have to settle for half a loaf?”

Like air from a balloon, Victoria’s self-esteem hissed out through the hole in her ego. Half a loaf. Her mother thought she was half a loaf.

“He’s willing to take you back,” Adrianna went on. “The two of you got along very well before. You even seemed to be in love. I’m sure you can move past this little setback.”

Adrianna turned to face her, and if Vicky hadn’t been crushed she might have recognized something like love in her mother’s eyes.

“Victoria, Winston’s financially secure. There’s family money there and his business is thriving. If you marry him, you’ll never have to struggle like I did after your father died. Right now you have the upper hand because he feels guilty. You can insist on a generous pre-nup so even if there’s a divorce down the road, you’ll never have to worry about money.”

When Vicky didn’t respond, Adrianna’s jaw hardened. “That’s the deal,” she said. “Promise me you’ll give Winston another chance or I’ll go straight to Matt and insist that he throw his fiancé’s best friend out of the wedding.”

Vicky stared at the floor. It was a given that her mother was ruthless. But how could she force Vicky to choose between Matt’s misery now or her own misery later?

And then, through the gloom, she saw a loophole in the deal. Winston was in New York City. By the time she saw him again, the wedding would be over and her mother would have nothing to threaten her with. Then she could, and would, renege on her promise.

After all, a good lawyer like Adrianna would know that a promise made under duress isn’t enforceable.

Careful to keep the triumph off her face, she raised her head and met Adrianna’s eye. “You leave me no choice. If you keep quiet all weekend, I’ll give Winston another chance.”

Satisfied, Adrianna turned away and began poking through her jewelry case. “Cocktails at six in the garden. You can introduce me to Brown then.”

“Sure. Will your guest be there?”

Adrianna slipped a diamond stud into her earlobe, angled her head to admire it. “Unfortunately, I only thought to invite him at the last minute. He had some appointments he couldn’t reschedule, so he won’t be here until Friday.”

Vicky went to the door, paused with her hand on the knob. “By the way, Isabelle’s got it in her head that Tyrell and I should get together. She practically ordered him to flirt with me. I told him I’d flirt back, for her sake.”

Adrianna arched an eyebrow as she fastened the other stud. “Just don’t get any ideas about taking it further than that. I understand from Terry”—Vicky’s second chair at the trial—“that he’s exceptionally handsome and quite the charmer.” She smiled at herself in the mirror, then flicked her gaze to Vicky’s. “Remember that you’re handling the appeal in his case. Don’t cross any lines with him that could jeopardize that. And don’t forget that I can—and will—pull the plug on this scheme if it gets out of hand.”

Vicky rolled her eyes. “Believe me, anything you see going on between us will be completely phony. I can’t stand him and he can’t stand me. And nothing that happens in the next four days is going to change that.”

Chapter Six

A
slender man in a tuxedo uncorked a bottle of wine, then lined it up with a dozen others on the portable bar the caterers had stationed on the terrace.

Maybe I should get plastered
, Vicky thought, watching from her bedroom window.
Throw up on Tyrell. Better yet, on Mother.

She rested her forehead on the cool glass, dreading every minute of the weekend.

Down on the terrace, Isabelle stepped into view. She spoke a few words to the bartender, flicked an assessing glance at the café tables dotting the grass. Then someone must have called to her, because she looked over her shoulder, breaking into a smile.

Ty emerged from the chateau, ambling toward her with that loose-limbed gait of his, the sun picking out streaks in his hair. He plucked a sprig of lavender from an urn, ran it through his fingers, releasing the scent, then tucked it behind her ear.

In her present mood, Vicky almost wanted to perceive something illicit between them so she could pull the plug on the whole miserable weekend. But she sensed only friendship, and a deep affection. Ty would do what was necessary to protect Isabelle, even fake a flirtation with a woman he despised.

Vicky pinched back tears. No one cared about her that much. No one but Matt. And now he was abandoning her to go off and start his own family. Leaving her to fend for herself with the likes of Tyrell Brown and Winston Churchill Banes and all the other heartless people in the world.

A sob hitched in her throat. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t freaking fair.

Outside, Isabelle reached up and touched Ty’s cheek, made some giggling comment, maybe about the bristles there, then patted it lightly and disappeared inside. Hands in his pockets, Ty watched her go, and on his face Vicky could have sworn she saw the same wistful longing that wrung her own heart. The yearning to belong to someone.

She straightened away from the window.

God, I’m pathetic. Imagining I have something in common with that idiot. I should stop feeling sorry for myself and just be happy that Matt’s found someone. That I can finally do something for him for a change.

Squaring her shoulders, she drew a deep, even breath, exhaled it to a four count. Another one. Another.

She just had to get through the weekend. Then, on Monday morning, she’d be back in her own world. Maybe it wasn’t all she’d dreamed of, but it wasn’t so bad. At least she knew what to expect each day.

For the rest of her lonely life.

T
y cracked his funny bone, let out an oath. The damn shower stall was tighter than a coffin. How was a man supposed to hose out his armpits when his shoulders spanned the walls?

Snaking one hand up, he worked his hair into a lather, then ducked under the low-hanging showerhead to rinse. Jesus, these Frenchmen must be short and narrow. Wait’ll Jack had to wedge his frame into one of these. Then there’d be some cussing.

The water went lukewarm so he shut it off. What the hell? Were they rationing the hot water? It was a damn good thing he liked a short shower, or he’d be pissed.

He tracked water into the bedroom, yanked a towel off the stack on the bureau. Why didn’t they keep them in the bathroom? It was too tiny, that’s why. He shook out the towel. At least it was man-sized. And fluffy. He scrubbed it over his chest, roughed up his hair, and dropped it on the floor.

Then he stretched out on the queen-sized bed and stared up at the ceiling. A nap would be good; he was still jet-lagged. But he might as well forget about it. The four-day festivities were about to kick off, which meant that in ten minutes he had to be down in the garden making himself agreeable to a bunch of folks he didn’t know, and didn’t want to know.

First, he’d have to tuck his tail and let Matt play alpha dog. It grated, but he’d do it for Isabelle.

Next he’d make nice with Matt’s mother, a woman so horrible she made the bitch on wheels quake. Christ.

And to really make his night, he’d cozy up to the bitch on wheels herself. Flirt with her, God help him, when she made his skin crawl. When he could still hear her asking him if he was sure, absolutely certain, that Lissa had woken up.

Was he? The question gnawed at him, as it had for seven years. Was he sure she’d actually opened her eyes and asked him to turn off the machines? Or was he so desperate for justification, for absolution, that he only imagined it?

If he’d imagined it, there was no absolution. He’d have to admit to himself that he pulled the plug on his wife for his own selfish reasons. Because he couldn’t stand to see her like that, to think she was hurting and he was helpless to heal her.

Fuck it. He threw his feet off the bed, plowed his fingers through his hair. Fuck Victoria Westin and her stupid fucking question.

He strode to the bureau, pulled on some fresh blue jeans. Opened the armoire and yanked out a shirt, midnight blue with pearl snaps. A gift from Isabelle, her version of a cowboy shirt.

Hell, he’d give his eyeteeth to be going off cowboying now. Saddling up for a few weeks on the range instead of primping for cocktails in Amboise.

He stomped into his boots.

Fuck it.

E
ven with her back to the door, Vicky knew the exact moment when Tyrell stepped onto the terrace.

Isabelle’s friend Annemarie, who’d been describing to her and Isabelle in her charmingly halting English the challenges of balancing her graduate studies in anthropology with her weekend job as an exotic dancer, broke off in the middle of a sentence.

“Ooo la la,” she breathed.

Glancing over her shoulder, Vicky rolled her eyes.

Ty stood just outside the door, wearing cowboy boots and a hokey Western shirt tucked into faded jeans, his sun-streaked hair as carelessly mussed as if he’d just come in from a hard ride across dry prairie. All he needed was a Stetson and he could pose for a Marlboro ad.

Isabelle giggled. “I told you.”

“Yes, you did,” murmured Annemarie, “but I thought you were . . . how do you say . . . exaggerating?” Her eyes raked him. “He is here alone?”

“For now,” Isabelle hedged. She cut a glance at Vicky. “Although he might be interested in someone.”

Annemarie licked her glossy red lips. “Ah, but he is. Me.” And lifting another glass of champagne off a passing tray, she ditched Vicky and Isabelle and made a beeline to the terrace.

Isabelle let out a sigh. “I suppose I can’t blame her. I had the same reaction the first time I saw him.” She gave Vicky an encouraging smile. “She won’t get anywhere, though. Ty’s a one-woman man. When he’s interested in someone, other women simply don’t exist for him.”

At that very moment, Ty’s gaze latched on to the dark-haired beauty sashaying up the stone steps. His lips curved in an appreciative smile.

As Annemarie crossed the terrace toward him, hips swaying seductively, his gaze wandered down the length of her in that lazy way of his, then back up again until his eyes locked with hers, holding them while he took the glass she offered, pinged it to hers, and took a long swallow.

Isabelle’s brows knit as she watched him give the lie to her words. Her lips turned down in an uncharacteristic frown.

And Vicky got pissed. On Isabelle’s behalf, and her own.

Damn you, Tyrell Brown, this was your stupid plan! You’re supposed to flirt with
me
, not spread it around to every big-boobed stripper who throws herself at you!

Okay, maybe Annemarie had more going for her than boobs. But predictably, that’s where his eyes kept straying. And who could blame him? Jacked up like she was on those four-inch stilettos, her double Ds were literally
under his nose
, exploding like mushroom clouds out of her skintight, siren-red dress.

As if that wasn’t enough, she tossed her lustrous black hair over one bare shoulder and licked her ruby lips so the gloss glistened wetly. Then, incredibly, she reached out to touch his chest, fingering the pearly snaps.

The woman had no boundaries!

And Ty, the idiot, ate it up with a spoon, brushing a knuckle down her arm as he whispered in her ear, laughing with her as they shared what was certainly sexual banter.

Glancing down at her own conservative dress, Vicky bit her lip. The white linen sheath had seemed just right—flattering but not overtly sexy—until Annemarie showed up with her cleavage. And flat sandals had seemed like a practical choice until she got a load of Annemarie’s mile-high legs. How was she supposed to compete with that?

Her stomach knotted. Rejected again.

Then she reminded herself that this evening—this whole weekend—was not about her. Whether Tyrell found her attractive—which he obviously didn’t—was irrelevant. He was a jackass anyway. Let him hook up with Annemarie. At least that would put an end to the stupid fake flirtation.

Turning her attention to Isabelle, she tossed out the first thing that came to mind. “So, how did you find this place?”

Isabelle dragged her eyes away from the train wreck on the terrace. “You mean this chateau? A friend of the family owns it. He usually rents it to upscale tour groups, but it happened to be free this week.”

Matt came up behind her, chained his arms around her waist. “Another happy coincidence,” he said over her shoulder. “Like us meeting in Tiffany’s.” He winked at Vicky.

Isabelle turned in his arms, smiling up at him beautifully. She said something soft that Vicky couldn’t hear.

And Matt rubbed noses with her.

Yes, Vicky’s macho brother actually rubbed noses with Isabelle. Vicky didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Either way, she needed to get away from them. Their open affection stung like acid in the wound of her most recent rejection. Granted, that rejection was by a man she couldn’t stand and hoped never to lay eyes on again. But still.

Easing backward, hoping to escape unnoticed, she took a step back, and . . . crunch . . . her heel came down on a toe.

“Shi—!” A gruff voice bit back the curse.

Tyrell, of course, who else?

Reacting instantly, Vicky shifted to her other foot. But she moved too fast and lost her balance. She crow-hopped on one foot, arms flapping, champagne spouting from her glass.

She prayed with all her might.
Please God, please don’t let me fall
again
!

Then a strong arm curled around her waist, hauling her back against a solid chest and pinning her like a bug. “Careful now, sugar.” Ty’s drawl rumbled in her ear. “You don’t want to take another tumble, now do you?”

Her humiliation was complete.

Well, not quite. She gritted her teeth as he added in an aside, “She’s got some balance issues.”

“Ah.” Behind her back, Annemarie’s stage whisper sounded sympathetic. “Now I understand why she is having to wear those sandals. My
grand-mère
, she wears ortho . . . how do you say . . . orthopedic shoes too, since she broke her hip.”

Vicky’s head came up. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

Now
that
she didn’t have to put up with.
That
was a game she could play and win. Adrianna Marchand’s daughter was weaned on passive-aggressive insults. She ate them for breakfast. And was only too happy to serve them with cocktails.

Shrugging off Ty’s arm, she took a moment to smooth her dress. Then she turned around, innocent smile in place.

“Annemarie, you’re still here? You’re not working tonight?”

Annemarie’s brow puckered as much as Botox allowed. “No, I’m not. Why do you ask?”

Vicky ran an astonished eye over her getup. “Well, why else would you wear a pole-dancing outfit to a cocktail party?”

Ignoring Annemarie’s huff, she shifted her attention to Ty, her expression morphing into a worried frown.

“Gosh, Tyrell, I hope I didn’t scuff the alligator. I know how you cowboys are about your boots”—she dropped into her own stage whisper—“up there on Brokeback Mountain.”

T
wo points for the bitch on wheels
, Ty thought. His lips kicked up in a grin as he watched her sail away.

He had to hand it to her, she’d hit Annemarie where it hurt. Him too, with that Brokeback comment. He could laugh it off, though, because any red-blooded woman—or man—would know from a mile away that he was all male. All
hetero
male. Not that he had a problem with gays. He just wasn’t one, that’s all.

Isabelle touched his arm. He dragged his eyes away from Vicky to look down at her, and damn it, she was chewing her lip. That meant she was worried about everybody else—him, Vicky, and probably Annemarie too, although she was likely down some on the list at the moment—when she should be having fun.

He was falling down on the job.

Matt had moved away to talk with Isabelle’s father, so Ty draped his arm over her shoulders, gave her a squeeze. “Isabelle honey, this is just about the prettiest party I’ve ever been to.”

That got her to smile. “I notice you said ‘prettiest,’ not ‘best.’ ”

“Well now, sugar, the night’s young. Things might pick up.” He laughed when she stuck out her lip. “Don’t you worry about me. You stocked the pond with pretty women. If I can’t fish one out, I’ve got only myself to blame.”

Annemarie’s laugh tinkled at that, a seductive sound. He almost threw her a wink, then thought better of it. Given his druthers, he’d flirt her into a frenzy all evening, then take her upstairs and let her show her stuff, stripping off that five-alarm dress.

But, unfortunately, that wasn’t in his job description. Instead, he’d have to fake-flirt with the bitch on wheels and go to bed alone.

Still, there was no reason he couldn’t have a little fun with the situation. Push Vicky’s buttons. Get under her skin. She could fire off some real good shots when she got her panties in a bunch.

It wouldn’t make up for hot stripper sex, and he’d have to be damn careful that Isabelle didn’t catch on. But it sure would keep things interesting.

P
ierre Oulette made fifty-five look like the prime age for a man.

The usual benchmarks of maturity, like the silver threading his thick brown hair and the creases his smile brought out around his blue eyes, only enhanced his tanned and angular face, making it more compelling.